Paul Preuss - Venus Prime 2 - Maelstrom

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ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME 2
Introduction
by ARTHUR C. CLARKE
T here cannot be many science fiction novels that end with a 40-page appendix full of mathematical
equations and electric-circuit diagrams. Don’t worry–this isn’t one of them; but just such a book inspired it,
half a century ago. And with any luck, during the next half-century it will cease to be fiction.
It must have been in 1937 or ’38, when I was Treasurer of the five-year-old British Interplanetary Society
(annual budget to start the conquest of space, about $200), that the BIS was sent a book with a rather odd title,
by an author with an even odder name. “Akkad Pseudoman’s” Zero to Eighty (Princeton: Scientific
Publishing Company, 1937) must now be quite a rarity: I am indebted to my old friend Frederick I. Ordway
III (responsible for the technical designs in 2001: A Space Odyssey) for the fine copy I possess.
The snappy subtitle says it all:
Being my lifetime doings,
reflections, and inventions
also
my journey round the Moon
Quite an “also”; I can hear the author’s modest cough.
He was not, of course, really Mr. Pseudoman, as the preface made clear. This was signed “E. F. Northrup,”
and explained that the book had been written to show that the Moon may be reached by means of known
technologies, without “invoking any imaginary physical features or laws of nature.”
Dr. E. F. Northrup was a distinguished electrical engineer, and the inventor of the induction furnace which
bears his name. His novel, which is obviously a wish-fulfillment fantasy, describes a journey to the Moon
(and around it) in a vehicle fired from the earth by a giant gun, as in Jules Verne’s classic From the Earth to
the Moon. Northrup, however, tried to avoid the obvious flaws in Verne’s naive proposal, which would have
quickly converted Ardan et al. into small blobs of protoplasm inside a sphere of molten metal.
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Northrup used an electric gun, two hundred kilometers long, most of it horizontal but with the final section
curving up Mount Popocatepetl, so that the projectile would be at an altitude of more than five kilometers
when it reached the required escape velocity of 11.2 kilometers per second. In this way, air-resistance losses
would be minimized, but a small amount of rocket power would be available for any necessary corrections.
Well–it makes more sense than Verne’s Moongun, but not by much. Even with 200 kilometers of launch
track, the unfortunate passengers would have to withstand 30 gees for more than half a minute. And the cost
of the magnets, power stations, transmission lines, etc. would run into billions; rockets would be cheaper, as
well as far more practical.
I am sure that “Akkad Pseudoman” would have been surprised–and delighted–to know that men first circled
the Moon aboard Apollo 8 at Christmas 1969; the date he gave in his novel was June 28, 1961. Incidentally,
he was not the first to propose this scheme: the Winter, 1930 Science Wonder Quarterly has a beautiful Frank
R. Paul illustration of a line of giant electromagnets, shooting a spaceship up a mountainside. It could very
well have served as the frontispiece of Zero to Eighty.
A few years after reading Dr. Northrup’s book (which is still full of interesting ideas, including a remarkably
sympathetic–especially for the time–treatment of Russian technology) it occurred to me that he had made one
slight mistake. He had put his electric launcher on the wrong world; it made no sense on Earth–but was ideal
for the Moon.
First: there’s no atmosphere to heat up the vehicle or destroy its momentum, so the whole launching track can
be laid out horizontally. Once it’s given escape velocity, the payload will slowly rise up from the surface of
the Moon and head out into space.
Second: lunar escape velocity is only one-fifth of Earth’s, and can therefore be attained with a
correspondingly shorter launch track–and a twenty-fifth of the energy. When the time comes to export goods
from the Moon, this will be the way to do it. Although I was thinking of inanimate payloads, and launchers
only a few kilometers long, suitably protected human passengers could be handled by larger systems, if there
were ever enough traffic to justify them.
I wrote up this idea, with the necessary calculations, in a paper titled “Electromagnetic Launching as a Major
Contribution to Space-Flight,” which was duly published in the Journal of the British Interplanetary Society
(November, 1950); it may be more conveniently located in my Ascent to Orbit: A Scientific Autobiography
(Wiley, 1984). And because a good idea should be exploited in every possible way, I used it in fiction on two
occasions: in the chapter “The Shot from the Moon” (Islands in the Sky, 1952) and in the short story
“Maelstrom II” (Playboy, April 1965, reprinted in The Wind from the Sun, 1972). This is the tale which Paul
Preuss has ingeniously worked into Venus Prime, Volume 2.
Some twenty years after the publication of “Electromagnetic Launching” by the BIS, the concept was taken
much further by Gerald O’Neill, who made it a key element of his “space colonization” projects (see The
High Frontier, 1977; Gerry O’Neill is justifiably annoyed by the Star Warriors’ preemption of his title.) He
showed that the large space habitats he envisaged could be most economically constructed from materials
mined and prefabricated on the Moon, and then shot into orbit by electromagnetic catapults to which he gave
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ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME 2
the name “mass drivers.” (I’ve challenged him to produce any propulsion device that doesn’t fit this
description.)
The other scientific element in “Maelstrom II” has a much longer history; it’s the branch of celestial
mechanics known as “perturbation theory.” I’ve been able to get considerable mileage out of it since my
applied maths instructor, the cosmologist Dr. George C. McVittie, introduced me to the subject at Kings
College, London, in the late ’40s. However, I’d come across it–without realizing–in dear old Wonder Stories
almost two decades earlier. Here’s a challenge to you: spot the flaw in the following scenario. . . .
The first expedition has landed on Phobos, the inner moon of Mars. Gravity there is only about a thousandth
of Earth’s, so the astronauts have a great time seeing how high they can jump. One of them overdoes it, and
exceeds the tiny satellite’s escape velocity of about thirty kilometers an hour. He dwindles away into the sky,
toward the mottled red Marscape; his companions realize that they’ll have to take off and catch him before he
crashes into the planet only six thousand kilometers below.
A dramatic situation, which opens Lawrence Manning’s 1932 serial “The Wreck of the Asteroid.” Manning,
one of the most thoughtful science fiction writers of the ’30s, was an early member of the American Rocket
Society, and was very careful with his science. But this time, I’m afraid, he was talking nonsense: his high
jumper would have been perfectly safe.
Look at his situation from the point of view of Mars. If he’s simply standing on Phobos, he’s orbiting the
planet at almost eight thousand kilometers an hour (a Moon that close to its primary has to move pretty fast).
As spacesuits are massive affairs, and not designed for athletic events, I doubt if the careless astronaut could
achieve that critical thirty kilometers an hour. Even if he did, it would be less than a half-percent of the
velocity he already has, relative to Mars. Whichever way he jumped, therefore, it will make virtually no
difference to his existing situation; he’ll still be traveling in almost the same orbit as before. He’d recede a
few kilometers away from Phobos–and be right back where he started, just one revolution later! (Of course,
he could run out of oxygen in the meantime–the trip round Mars will take seven-and-a-half hours. So maybe
his friends should go after him–at their leisure.)
This is perhaps the simplest example of “perturbation theory,” and I developed it a good deal further in
“Jupiter V” (reprinted in Reach for Tomorrow, 1956). This story, incidentally, was based on what seemed a
cute idea in the early ’50s. A decade earlier, LIFE Magazine had published space-artist Chesley Bonestell’s
famous paintings of the outer planets. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if sometime in the 21st century LIFE
sent one of its photographers out there to bring back the real thing, and compare it with Chesley’s hundred-
year-old visions?
Well, little did I imagine that, in 1976, the Voyager space-probe would do just this–and that, happily, Chesley
would still be around to see the result. Many of his carefully researched paintings were right on target–though
he couldn’t have anticipated such stunning surprises as the volcanoes of Io, or the multiplex rings of Saturn.
Much more recently, Perturbation Theory plays a key role in 2061: Odyssey Three; and I won’t promise not
to use it again one of these days. It gives all sorts of opportunities for springing surprises on the unsuspecting
reader–
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ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME 2
–Over to you, Paul Preuss!
Arthur C. Clarke
Colombo, Sri Lanka
Prologue
T he thin wind whistled shrilly along the knife-edged ice. Needles of ice and scallops of ice thrust out of
the compacted sand into the wind-borne grit. Gargoyles of ice hung from cliffs a kilometer high, brooding
over the polar plain.
The wind was too thin to sustain a living thing but not too thin to carry the abrasive grit. The grit etched the
rock and heaped the sand and carved the ice and the hard stone into arches and buttresses and buttes. The thin
wind was a digger.
The hole it was digging now, in the sand beneath the ice, had a piece of metal in it. The metal was shiny and
hard, not so hard that it had not been shattered–who knows when or how–but so hard the wind-borne grit
could not mar its mirror surface.
Something else had etched the metal and dug channels in it. The channels were different from each other but
all the same height and width and depth. They ran in straight lines. There were three dozen different kinds of
them, but they repeated themselves in various sequences until the total number of them, etched in the metal,
was a thousand and more.
A Martian year after the wind dug the etched mirror out of the sand beneath the ice, a man in a pressure suit
came along and found it lying exposed there and carried it away.
“You’re crazy, Johnny, you can’t keep a thing like that secret. How you gonna make money on somethin’
looks like nothin’ nobody’s ever seen before?”
“Are you sayin’ it’s not valuable, Liam?”
“I’m sayin’ it’s too valuable. It’s one of a kind. You won’t get no money fer it, under the table or over.”
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ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME 2
This was about as private as you could get around here, in the poker nest under the pipe rack in the drill rig
dome, where the booze and the dope were cached. The crew boss knew all about it; he didn’t give a squeak,
as long as nobody showed up high on any company monitors. But you had to whisper in here. These damn
domes carried sound from one side to the other just as good as a phone link, and you never knew who was
standing over there listening in.
“Huh. Never thought I’d be accused of bein’ in possession of somethin’ too valuable.”
“Quit poor-mouthin’. You been takin’ plenty off us.”
“Yeah, and I’m plannin’ to do it again tonight. You got one more chance before the others show up. Front me
to these pals of yours in Lab City, you can keep a third.”
“Forget it. Best turn it straight in. That way at least you’re a hero. Every day you keep it you’re askin’ fer a
ticket to jail.”
Passage doors popped, away on the other side of the dome. Somebody’s belch echoed off the stacks of pipe.
“What if I said there’s more out there, Liam? Other stuff with this funny writing. And stuff I can’t tell what it
is.”
“You tryin’ to con me, Johnny?”
“Hell, no.”
“A lot of stuff?”
“Make up your mind first.”
“I’ll mull it over.”
“Boo, you guys.” A laugh sounded right behind them, slung over the arch of the dome. “It’s game time.”
“I want no tales circulatin’, Liam”–hardly even a whisper now–“You’re the only soul on Mars knows what I
got.”
“You can trust me, John.”
“Good. We’ll both stay healthy.”
A week later, already four days behind schedule, the crew finally got the rig up and started to sink pipe. The
sun went down in the red Martian sky, taking a pack of sundogs with it. Liam and Johnny were working the
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drillhead. They’d been hard at it for four hours and they were already down to permafrost when the pipe
kicked–nobody ever did figure out how it happened, but it was no surprise, this was not a tight ship–but then
Johnny really screwed up and it got away from him and the business end of the pipe blew a hole in the ice.
Which normally would have resulted in maybe some people getting a quick ride back to the unemployment
line in Labyrinth City, except right underneath them there was a big pocket of pressurized gas in the
permafrost and it blew too, and the whole pipe rack went way, way up like a bundle of straws, and then all the
straws came back down on Liam and John.
A man’s fine blond hair fell to within millimeters of the etched metal where it rested on the green baize
desktop. “How did he come to be in possession of this exquisite thing?” The man was big-boned and tall, but
his movements were precise and delicate. As he bent to inspect the plaque, he was careful not to let a hair
touch it; he was reluctant even to let his breath cloud its shining surface.
“He must have picked it out of the sand, sometime within the past two months. Certainly he hadn’t the
slightest idea of its worth.” The other man was older, pinstriped and crewcut. He flicked a holomap of the
North Pole onto the mapscreen. “Our crew has hit these four sites since they went out in the spring. Spent
roughly two weeks in each.” His blunt index finger pushed at four glowing dots that formed a ragged curve
around the terraced ice. “The discipline was appalling, Albers. People took rovers and went joy-riding
whenever they liked. Just where to is anyone’s guess. I’ve sacked the foreman and the district manager. Not
in time to do us any good, I’m sorry to say.”
The tall man, an archaeologist, straightened and pushed his hair back. The sadness of his wide, down-turned
mouth was offset by eager gray eyes, exuberantly bushy eyebrows, and a forehead that climbed to the high
latitudes of his skull before disappearing under his blond hair. “This couldn’t possibly have been an isolated
artifact. Surely there’s an incomparable treasure out there.”
“And we’ll do our best to find it,” said the executive. “Can’t hold out much hope, though. At least this piece
is in your good hands now.”
Together they studied it in silence. The drilling man’s reverence was as profound as the archaeologist’s.
The blond archaeologist had spent ten years following the drilling crews, searching the frosted sands, tracing
Martian watercourses that had dried to powder a billion years ago. He and his colleagues who specialized in
paleontology had found fossils in abundance, simple forms highly adapted to a climate that had swung
between frightening extremes of wet and dry, cyclone and calm, cold and colder.
But what drew archaeologists to this sparse ground were the scattered remnants of a different order of life–not
fossils, not scraps of shell or bone, but the remains of what might have been implements made of novel
alloys, and here and there tantalizing hints of what might have been structures. All these creatures–the
abundant life that had crept across Mars and wallowed in the wet sands beside the desert-scouring flash
floods, and the beings, whatever they were, who had left only hints of their advanced development–all these
had flourished and vanished before life on Earth had evolved to anything more complex than blue-green
algae.
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ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME 2
Now the metal mirror on the desk, incised with a thousand characters, gave testimony that a billion years ago
Mars had been host to a high culture.
“I suppose Forster knows of this already.”
“Yes, I regret to say,” the driller replied. “The word spread fast on the grapevine. Forster’s on his way from
Earth now.”
A smile flirted with the archaeologist’s mournful mouth. “It will be amusing to see what he makes of it.”
“He’s already held a media conference, you know. Already given the makers of this a name.”
“Oh? What name?”
“He calls them Culture X.”
The sad archaeologist allowed himself an amused grunt.“Dear Professor Forster. Always energetic. Not
always very original.”
“That at least is to our advantage.”
* * *
No efforts of drilling teams or scientists ever found any trace of a treasure hoard on Mars. But ten years after
the discovery of the Martian plaque, a mining robot on the surface of Venus–a planet as different from Mars
as hell from limbo–was prospecting in a narrow canyon near an ancient beach, a beach a billion years old.
The robot’s diamond-edged proboscis cut through a wall of rock and came upon strange things. Within hours
news went out across the solar system that Culture X had been, without doubt, a spacefaring species.
PART ONE
CONCERNING RESEARCH
INTO LOST TIME
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ARTHUR C. CLARKE'S VENUS PRIME: VOLUME 2
I
Sparta closed her eyes, stretched in the tub, and let her chin bob at the water line. At the threshold of sound,
the water fizzed. Droplets condensed on her eyelashes; invisible bubbles tickled her nose. The odor of sulfur
hung lightly over the baths.
The precise chemical formulation of the minerals in the water appeared unbidden in her mind’s eye; they
changed every day, and today the water cocktail mimicked the baths of Cambo-les-Bains in the Pays Basque.
Sparta analyzed her environment wherever she went, without thinking about it. It was a reflex.
She floated easily; she weighed less, and the water weighed less, than they would have on Earth. She was a
long way from Earth. Minutes went by and the warm water rocked her into relaxed drowsiness as she savored
the news she had long awaited and only today received, her orders from Space Board headquarters: her
assignment here was ended, and she was recalled to Earth Central.
“Are you Ellen?” The voice was quiet, tentative but warm.
Sparta opened her eyes and saw a young woman standing shadowed in the mist, naked but for the towel
wrapped around her waist. Her straight black hair was tied in a bun.
“Where is Keiko?”
“Keiko was unable to come today. I’m Masumi. If it is all right with you, I will give you your massage.”
“I hope Keiko isn’t ill.”
“A minor legal matter. She asked me to apologize for her, most sincerely.”
Sparta listened to the woman’s soft voice. She heard nothing but the simple truth. She rose from the tub. Her
slick skin, rosy with heat, gleamed in the filtered light from the terrace. The diffuse light played over her
dancer’s small taut figure, over her slight breasts, over her flat stomach and abdomen ridged with muscle and
her slim hard thighs.
Her disheveled blond hair, soaking wet in back where it had been submerged, fell straight to her jaw line; she
kept it chopped off straight, with little regard for fashion. Her full lips were perpetually parted, tasting the air.
“Here’s a towel for you,” Masumi said. “Would you like to go on the upper terrace? We still have an hour of
Venus-light.”
“Certainly.” Sparta followed the woman along the row of steaming tubs and up the steps to the open roof
deck, brushing the water from her shoulders and breasts as she walked.
“Excuse me a moment, please. They forgot to take the tables in before the last rain.” Masumi spilled the film
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of water from the waist-high massage table and rubbed it dry while Sparta stood at the low rail, swiping at the
last drops of moisture on her flanks and calves.
She looked down over the houses and gardens of Port Hesperus. The flat roofs descended below her in steps,
like the roofs of a Greek village on a steep hillside, each house with its enclosed courtyard of citrus trees and
flowering plants. At the bottom of the hill were the parallel main streets of the village, and between them,
gardens of exotic shrubs and towering trees, redwoods and firs, tall poplars and yellow ginkgoes. These
famous gardens, landscaped by Seno Sato, were what made Port Hesperus a destination worth a wealthy
tourist’s visit.
The streets and the gardens curved sharply up to the left and right and met high above Sparta’s head. Behind
her and to both sides a huge concavity of glass slats swept up to embrace the houses and trees in a single
globe. Half a kilometer away in the enclosed sky, a metal spindle threaded this sphere of glass and metal and
plants and people; around the shining spindle the whole populous globe turned twice a minute.
To Sparta’s right, sunlight poured into the sphere. To her left, an arc of Venus blazed like a polished shield;
the planet’s white clouds showed no detail, seemed not to move, although they were driven by supersonic
winds. Over Sparta’s head the whirling sun was rivaled by the reflection of Venus–a million reflections, one
in each louvered pane, rolling around the axis of Port Hesperus.
The high-orbiting station would take another hour to pass over the planet’s sunlit hemisphere and into the
night. By natural sunlight, the days on Port Hesperus were only a few hours long, but people here made their
own time.
“Is there anything you particularly wanted to work on?” Masumi asked. “Keiko mentioned recurring
headaches?”
“I seem to have a lot of tension at the base of my skull.”
“If you would just lie down–”
Sparta climbed onto the table and lay with her cheek pressed into the padding. She closed her eyes. She heard
the woman moving about, arranging her things–the oil, the towels, the footstool she would stand on when she
needed to reach Sparta’s lower back from above. With her acute hearing, Sparta heard the almost inaudible
sound of fragrant oil flowing onto Masumi’s hands, heard the louder sound of Masumi’s palms briskly
stroking each other and warming the oil . . .
The heat of Masumi’s palms hovered an inch above Sparta’s shoulders, then descended strongly, moving the
flesh. . . . As the minutes passed, her strong fingers and the heels of her hands plowed the muscles of Sparta’s
back down the whole length of her trunk, from shoulders to buttocks and back again, and down her arms to
her upturned, lightly curled fingers.
There Masumi hesitated. To pause at this moment in a massage, just after a strong beginning, was not
characteristic of an alert, trained masseuse–but Sparta was used to it, and anticipated the question.
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“You were injured?”
“A traffic accident,” Sparta mumbled, her cheek pressed hard into the fabric. “When I was sixteen. Almost
ten years ago.” It was a lie, repeated so often she sometimes forgot it was a lie.
“Bone grafts?”
“Something like that. Artificial reinforcements.”
“Any sensitivity?”
“Please don’t worry,” Sparta said. “Keiko usually goes deep. I like that.”
“Very well.”
The woman resumed her work. The repetitive long strokes of Masumi’s hands on Sparta’s bare skin warmed
her; she felt herself sinking warmly into the padded table, under the warm sun and the reflected warmth of
Venus and the circulating warmth of the space station’s great garden sphere. Before long she had been
kneaded and stretched into complete and rubbery relaxation.
Sparta’s eyelid opened at the hot bite of pain, as Masumi’s fingers pressed into a knot in her right shoulder.
Under the insistent pressure of the masseuse’s fingers, Sparta’s spasmed muscles slowly began to unclench–
not without her willed cooperation. And when the knot finally unraveled, she felt an unaccustomed rush of
emotion. . . .
She could be the greatest of us
She resists our authority
William, she’s a child
To resist us is to resist the Knowledge
A groan escaped Sparta’s parted lips. Masumi went on with her work, making no comment. Under deep tissue
massage, people often found themselves involuntarily reliving moments of past anguish; letting those
memories resurface was part of the process.
Sparta had learned that lesson early, shortly after her first visit to the spa–one reason she had taken to Keiko’s
style of massage. Keiko’s expert hands had not only soothed her aching body, they had allowed and
encouraged Sparta to reach deeper into her own buried memories, as Masumi’s hands were doing now.
Memories and lies. Lying memories.
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摘要：

ARTHURC.CLARKE'SVENUSPRIME:VOLUME2IntroductionbyARTHURC.CLARKETherecannotbemanysciencefictionnovelsthatendwitha40-pageappen\dixfullofmathematicalequationsandelectric-circuitdiagrams.Don’tworry–thisisn’t\oneofthem;butjustsuchabookinspiredit,halfacenturyago.Andwithanyluck,duringthenexthalf-centuryitw\...

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